Alleyn drew up another chair for himself.
‘Mr Whipplestone told me you’d been very much upset by what happened last night and now I’m afraid I’ve gone and made matters worse,’ he said.
Still she didn’t speak and he went on: ‘I don’t expect you know who I am. It was I who interviewed your husband last night. I’m an old friend of Mr Whipplestone’s and I know how greatly he values your service.’
Mrs Chubb whispered: ‘The police?’
‘Yes, but there’s no need to worry about that. Really.’
‘He set on ’im,’ she said. ‘That –’ she shut her eyes for a second – ‘black man. Set on ’im.’
‘I know. He told me.’
‘It’s the truth.’ And with a startling force she repeated this, loudly, ‘It’s the truth. Sir. Do you believe that, sir? Do you believe it’s the truth?’
Alleyn waited for a moment.
He thought: ‘Do I believe this, do I believe the other thing? Everybody asking what one believes. The word becomes meaningless. It’s what one knows that matters in this muddle.’ He waited for a moment and then said: ‘A policeman may only believe what he finds out for himself, without any possible doubt, to be true. If your husband was attacked, as he says he was, we shall find out.’
‘Thank Gawd,’ she whispered. And then: ‘I’m sorry, I’m sure, to give way like this. I can’t think what’s come over me.’
‘Never mind.’
He got up and moved towards the photograph. Mrs Chubb blew her nose.
‘That’s an attractive face,’ Alleyn said, ‘Is it your daughter?’
‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Was.’
‘I’m sorry. Long ago?’
‘Six years.’
‘An illness?’
‘An accident.’ She made as if to speak, pressed her lips together and then shot out, as if defiantly: ‘She was the only one, our Glenys was.’
‘I can see the likeness.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Was the medallion special to her, perhaps?’
She didn’t answer. He turned round and found her staring at the photograph and wetting her lips. Her hands were clasped.
‘If it was,’ he said, ‘of course you’d be very upset when you thought you’d lost it.’
‘It wasn’t hers.’
‘No?’
‘I hadn’t noticed it wasn’t there. It gave me a turn, like. When you – you held it out.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Alleyn repeated.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Was it in London – the accident?’
‘Yes,’ she said and shut her mouth like a trap.
Alleyn said lightly: ‘It’s a rather unusual-looking medallion, isn’t it? An order or a badge or something of that sort, perhaps?’
She pulled her hands apart as if the gesture needed force to accomplish it.
‘It’s my husband’s,’ she said, ‘It’s Chubb’s.’
‘A club badge, perhaps?’
‘You could call it that, I suppose.’
She had her back to the door. It opened and her husband stood on the threshold.
‘I don’t know anything about it,’ she said loudly. ‘It’s got nothing to do with anything. Nothing.’
Chubb said: ‘You’re wanted downstairs.’
She got up and left the room without a glance at Alleyn or at her husband.
‘Were you wanting to see me, sir?’ Chubb asked woodenly. ‘I’ve just come in.’
Alleyn explained about the cat and the medallion. Chubb listened impassively, ‘I was curious,’ Alleyn ended, ‘about the medallion itself and wondered if it was a badge.’
Chubb said at once and without hesitation, ‘That’s correct, sir. It’s a little social circle with an interest in ESP and so forth. Survival and that.’
‘Mr and Miss Sanskrit are members, aren’t they?’
‘That’s correct, sir.’
‘And Mr Sheridan?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you?’ Alleyn said lightly.
‘They was kind enough to make me an honorary member, like. Seeing I go in and do the servicing for some of their meetings, sir. And seeing I was interested.’
‘In survival after death, do you mean?’
‘That kind of thing.’
‘Your wife doesn’t share your interest?’
He said flatly: ‘She doesn’t come into it, does she? It’s kind of complementary to my services, isn’t it? Like wearing a livery button used to be.’
‘I see. You must find a different place for it, mustn’t you?’ Alleyn said easily. ‘Out of reach of Lucy Lockett. Good afternoon to you, Chubb.’
Chubb mouthed rather than sounded his response to this and Alleyn left him, almost as bleached as his wife had been five minutes earlier.
Mr Whipplestone was still sipping tea. Lucy was discussing a saucer of milk on the hearthrug.
‘You must have some tea at once?’ Mr Whipplestone said, pouring it out. ‘And some anchovy toast. I hope you like anchovy toast. It’s still quite eatable, I think.’ He tipped back the lid of the hot-server and up floated the smell that of all others recalled Alleyn to his boyhood days with The Boomer. He took a piece of toast and his tea.
‘I can’t stay long,’ he said. ‘I oughtn’t to stay at all, in fact, but here goes.’
‘About the Chubbs?’ Mr Whipplestone ventured. Alleyn gave him a concise account of his visit upstairs. On the whole it seemed to comfort him. ‘As you suggested,’ he said, ‘the emblem of some insignificant little coterie and Chubb has been made a sort of non-commissioned officer in recognition of his serving them sandwiches and drinks. Perhaps they think he’s psychic. That makes perfectly good sense. Well, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, of course. It’s not without interest, do you agree,’ Alleyn asked, ‘that Sanskrit is on the police records for fraudulent practice as a fortune-teller and a phoney medium? And he’s suspected of the odd spot of drug trafficking’
‘I am not in the least surprised,’ Mr Whipplestone energetically declared. ‘In the realms of criminal deception he is, I feel sure, capable de tout. From that point of view, if from no other, I do of course deplore the Chubb connection.’
‘And there’s Mrs Cockburn-Montfort, who seems to be a likely candidate for the attempt-on-the-President stakes. Not a nice influence either, would you say?’
‘Oh drat!’ said Mr Whipplestone. ‘Very well, my dear fellow. I’m a selfish, square old bachelor and I don’t want anything beastly to happen to my Chubbs because they make life pleasant for me.’ His exasperated gaze fell upon his cat. ‘As for you,’ he scolded. ‘If you’d be good enough to keep your paws to yourself